


The Harvest

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kid John, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, M/M, Teen Lestrade, Teen Mycroft, Teen Mystrade, Teenlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last of the season's berries are ready for picking and Mycroft can't think of anyone better to collect them than Sherlock and John.  Fortunately, his dear Gregory is on hand to keep a watchful eye on things...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Harvest

**Author's Note:**

> A piece done as a special request that I was thrilled to fulfill. Can be read as an outtake from [The School Boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/877123/chapters/1686242) (sequel to [The Shop Boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/708550/chapters/1309053)) or as a standalone. If you're not familiar with The School Boy, all you have to know is that teen Mycroft and teen Lestrade are very much in love, Sherlock is a complete gremlin who actually approves of his older brother's relationship (even if he does think Lestrade is a complete peasant) and John is Sherlock's new friend from school. Mix in a pot and let the hi-jinks ensue...

Mycroft was in no manner eavesdropping.  It was far too common… he was simply gathering necessary information on the status of the relationship between Sherlock and John, the new boy at his school who Sherlock had apparently decided was less useless than his other peers and, therefore, worthy of his paradoxically dismissive attention.  The two seemed quite well matched, however, young Sherlock was still very much like an incendiary torch waiting to be dropped into a pile of summer-dried kindling and Mycroft had no intention of allowing as pleasant a child as John Watson to be consumed by his brother’s demonic flames.  And, more to the point, who else in creation would even try to befriend someone as hellacious as Sherlock, therefore, John’s kindly disposition must be protected as carefully as the crown jewels.

      “I am not a baccivore!”

      “Wouldn’t it be great if you were, though, Sherlock!  People would look at you and then get turned to stone… now all they do is scream a little and run away, which isn’t nearly as exciting.”

      “Not basilisk, you illiterate pygmy!  Baccivore, as in baccivorous.”

      “Was that supposed to be English?”

      “English as a person of at least rodent-level intelligence would understand.”

John used his tongue to express his opinion of Sherlock’s assessment of his mental faculties and Sherlock took the opportunity to swab the outstretched tissue with the genetic testing paper he kept on hand for such an occasion.  As John began to retch, Sherlock dropped the sack he had been directed to carry and started to scribble notes in his small field notebook.

      “Further proof that you are common.  Seventy percent of the human population, on average and discounting regional variation, experience phenylthiocarbamide as a bitter flavor on the tongue.  I, for example, cannot detect the substance, demonstrating clearly my genetic superiority.”

      “Now I won’t be able to taste the berries!”

      “An unintended, but highly welcome, outcome of my experiment.  There is no need to traipse off with these ridiculous sacks like indigents looking to supplement their nutrition with the wild-picked fruits and tubers left behind by the grubbing pigs and feral beasts of the field.”

      “Nope, I’m now thinking that a few juicy berries will wash away all the horrible taste, so I’m more ready than ever to get started.  Come on, Sherlock, it’ll be fun!  It’s nice today and what could be more fun than running around in the sunshine, getting to eat berries?  And what we bring back your cook said will go into tarts or jam or something else just as nice.  This is going to be great!”

      “In all the pantheon of possible definitions of the term ‘great,’ I find none that fit this particular situation.  ‘Great’ is not an accurate descriptor of me with a rough sack, savaging my fingers with both bramble stabs and anthocyanin dye, for the purpose of committing mass murder in a berry patch.  If I am to become a fruit-obsessed serial killer, it should at least be of a fruit of consequence such as a pineapple or one of the larger members of the melon family.  There is little challenge in decimating a stand of bacciferous bushes.”

      “You know, your mouth would be happier eating berries than spouting off a bunch of words nobody in the world but you can define.”

      “I beg to differ.  I shall attack the parts of your argument separately, beginning with the latter.  Mycroft!  You have been practicing your meddlesome spying for the past seven minutes.  Please inform John as to the definition of bacciferous then make yourself absent from my presence as your elephantine girth is altering the gravitational field in this location and it is giving me a piercing headache.  To be fair, however, John is also responsible, so you may decide how to equitably share the blame once you are several of your corpulent belly’s distance away from me.”

Mycroft looked down at the slight paunch he’d taken a small respite from holding in and wondered if asking Cook to use extra fats and carbohydrates in Sherlock’s meals would in any way alter his brother’s straight pin physique.

      “Ah, there you are Sherlock.  And John, how delightful to see you.  You had a question I believe, brother dear?  I was passing and heard the melodious tones of your voice.”

      “Your dissembling does you discredit.”

      “I shall file that information away with the list of others of my behaviors which have met with your disapproval, such as breathing and having my blood flow too noisily.  And, to provide enlightenment, bacciferous means bearing berries, John.”

      “Therefore, that is proof of two people in the world who know the definition, or at least one person and one modern-day brontosaurus whose sluggish motions are attributable to, first, it’s enormity and, second, to its attempt to invade a landmass rather than doing those with vision a boon by concealing said enormity with the watery environment it is actually evolved to inhabit.”

      “Is there a reason you keep saying your brother’s fat, like you have a brain tumor that’s making it hard to think, or are you just hoping he’ll go after your head with his fist because you like having an extra bump up there?”

      “Why thank you, John.  Never has my honor or my figure been so valiantly defended.  For that, I shall instruct Cook to add an assortment of her most palatable biscuits to her baking regimen when she prepares your berry-based treats.  And they shall be distributed on a sliding scale of valiancy.  I suspect you shall win the lion’s share, by far.”

      “Yes!  Thanks, Mycroft!”

      “Intolerable!  If anyone is to take the majority of the baked goods, it is me!  I am the superior being and should be rewarded!  No… not a reward.  Rewards are bestowed for a conscious act and my superiority is so infused into my fundamental core as to be exhibited without a modicum of effort on my part.  The biscuits shall be a tribute!  It is my due and I will have them or I shall know the reason why!”

      “It would be because you’re mental.”

      “Be silent, you pestilent pixie!  Not a crumb shall you have of my munificence.”

      “Mycroft?  A little help?”

      “Generosity.”

      “And he couldn’t just say that because…”

      “He is mental.”

      “Retract your slander, behemoth!”

      “I believe I shall decline your kind request, Sherlock, but thank you for framing it succinctly.  I do appreciate efficiency in communication.  Now, are you ready to embark upon your grand harvesting initiative?  Gregory shall arrive momentarily to drive you to your destination and you don’t want to keep him waiting, do you?”

      “The primary purpose of his existence is to serve me and he shall wait gladly if that is my desire.”

      “Greg isn’t your slave, Sherlock.  And you should be nicer to him.  I mean, he’s nice to you and since he’s Mycroft’s boyfriend you’ll be around him for a long time so you could try being less of a prat.”

      “Unfortunately, John, one cannot alter the fundamental nature of a human without providing proper enticement.  Perhaps you could offer that to Sherlock to impel him to promote inner change.”

      “I could punch him.  I’m good at that.”

      “Do not lay a hand on me, freckle, or I shall retaliate with the full force of my strength.”

      “Well, that’s not much of a threat.  You throw like a baby, so I bet you hit like one, too.”

      “We shall have words about this, John Watson.”

      “Won’t have time to talk, because I’ll be eating berries and so will you.  Now come on!  I hear Greg’s car.”

      “Words, John… there will be words.”

      “Yeah, well that’s no different than normal.  Mycroft, you sure you won’t come with us?”

      “I regret that I am not able to participate at this time, but I am certain you shall have a splendid outing.  Gregory has promised full disclosure of all details and I shall delight in each one, I have no doubt.”

      “Ok, your loss.  Cook says there’s lots of berries out there so there’ll be plenty for cooking and for eating.  I’ll make sure you get some fresh ones to eat so you don’t feel left out.”

      “Stop pandering to the insufferable heffalump!”

      “Really, Sherlock… John, do ensure he has his fill of wild-grown food while you are out.  It might calm his temperament.”

      “I’ll make sure he’s fit to burst.”

If John just filled Sherlock until his stomach bloated, Mycroft would be more than satisfied.

__________

Lestrade pulled up to the door of the Holmes house and smothered the grin from seeing the two small boys waiting on the steps, one blonde and joyful, one dark and scowling.  Already shaping up to be a fine day.

      “Get in here with you – I’m not waiting all day to take the two of you berry picking!”

      “Curb your tongue, lackey.  I have had to endure Mycroft’s nonsense already and have not the constitution for your indecipherable prattle.”

      “Oh good, you’re in a fine mood.  John, you ready?”

      “I’ve got my sack right here.”

      “Right and I have some baskets that Mum gave me in the boot.  She wants her share, too.”

      “This is fast becoming some form of tsetse-fly ridden journey into the rainforest!”

Lestrade wondered how much it would actually cost to send Sherlock on a little trip to a hot, humid, snake-ridden jungle.

      “Yeah, it’s easy to mistake your estate for the Amazon basin.  Now, hang on because it’s probably going to be a little bumpy.”

      “There is little other choice in this tin of pet food you call a vehicle.”

      “Well, that makes you the pet food doesn’t it, you little bastard?  Not the most flattering description, I’m surprised to hear it come from you, actually.”

      “Thanks a lot, Sherlock.  Now I’m pet food, too.”

      “For you, John, that could be considered a significant improvement.”

      “I can hold my sack and still punch you with the other fist, you know.”

      “Pet food has no force of thrust.  It is, at best, a semi-solid.  Your threat is empty as your ridiculous sack!”

Lestrade lit a cigarette, put the car in gear and started off in the direction Mycroft had pointed to for the berry harvesting adventure.  Hopefully, if he was very lucky, the great pet food argument would be over by the time they got there and he wouldn’t have to use the gaffer tape next to his Mum’s baskets to earn himself a bit of peace and quiet.  Prying that off two angry little mouths just might be more trouble than it was worth.

__________

      “Wow!  Look at them all!  And… yep.  They taste amazing.  These are the fattest, juiciest berries I’ve ever found.  Try one, Sherlock.”

      “No.”

      “Try a berry, you evil git.”

      “I am not evil, John, I simply would rather not place something into my mouth that birds and insects have both trod upon and perhaps graced with the products of both their excretory and digestive systems.”

      “You saying there’s poo on my berries?”

      “And urine, also.  A veritable cornucopia of waste.  I would not be surprised if stomach contents could be documented.  In fact, I shall take representative sample and run the appropriate tests.”

      “That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.”

      “Good.  You see the validity of my point.  Now, as I was saying… wmf!  Hw dr u!”

      “See, they’re great!  Even with the grossness, they’re the best berries ever.  Just eat around the poo and vomit if you want to.”

      “I shall be ill.  Peasant!  You will remain vigilant that I do not dehydrate from my incipient emesis or I shall inform Mycroft that you dangerously neglected my welfare!”

      “I think the berry juice and bird piss will keep you hydrated, but I’ll poke you now and then to see if you’re alive.”

      “I am never setting foot out of doors again!”

      “Mother Nature will be happy to hear that.  Now, off with you… go on with John and have some fun.”

      “This is a cesspit!  How exactly does one have fun in a cesspit?”

      “Go cess surfing or something.  I really don’t care just so long as you go off and do it somewhere else.  And fill up that sack yourself!  Don’t make John do all the work for you.”

      “I’ll keep an eye on him, Greg.  We’ll have these filled in no time.”

Before Sherlock could answer, John tossed Sherlock’s sack onto his friend’s head and hustled him off, leaving a grinning Lestrade in their wake.  ‘In no time’ would take hours if the older boy knew John and Sherlock.  Hours to sit back and read, have a few smokes, enjoy the uncharacteristically warm day and maybe spend a little time daydreaming about a certain sexy fellow who wore a suit like it was the devil’s own and could do a lot more with his tongue than talk…

__________

      “These are really brilliant.  You’re so lucky, Sherlock.  A big house, your own lab to do your experiments, lots of land to run around on and all these delicious berries.  If I didn’t have to actually be _you_ to be you, I’d want to be you!”

      “Feel free to assume my identity, if it pleases you.  Then I shall no longer have to suffer Mycroft’s bothersome meddling and the peon’s buffoonery.”

      “I don’t think Greg’s really a peon.  I mean, he’s got a real house to live in and his Mum has a car, so I don’t think that’s very peon-y.  And Mycroft’s supposed to meddle – he’s your brother!  So just be happy you have both of them around since your brother cares about you and so does Greg.  I mean, he brought us out here to pick berries when he could be doing something with his mates on a day like today.”

      “You’re just a loyal little gherkin, aren’t you?”

      “Be a tit if you want, but I know what’s what.”

      “What does that even mean?  It is as nonsensical as every other aspect of your existence.”

      “I wonder if berries make good earplugs.”

      “If you desire purple ears, then I would assume so.  However, should the berry skin be compromised and a seed wander away from its brethren to pass through your auditory canal, it would encounter a suitable habitat for germination and you would soon suffer the mental diminishment of an individual with berries for brains.”

John forced his hand to keep from rising to touch his ears, but Sherlock saw the twitch of said hand and grinned haughtily.

      “You’re… you’re not serious are you?”

      “Under normal circumstances there are membranes that prevent materials from entering deep within the ear, but the acidic nature of the berry juice would likely compromise their structural integrity to the point that a seed would be able to travel with little effort.”

John glared at his friend, who simply continued smiling while he examined a particularly large berry and cut glances between it and John’s right ear.

      “I think you’re lying.”

      “Oh?  Then by all means, do implement your foolhardy plan.  I shall prepare my notebook to collect data on your declining condition.  Be ready to make yourself available to me each day until your death so I may properly document every stage of your condition.  And I will require your head after your demise so that I may dissect it and study the specifics of the berry growth within your skull cavity.”

      “Now I know you’re lying!  Your brother wouldn’t let you have a real head to play with.”

      “How poorly you know the situation.  Let me lay out the path of logic for you.  Mycroft is enamored of his concubine, the lackey currently lazing about when he could be doing his proper task of collecting berries so that I am not forced to soil myself with the task.  Said lackey is enamored of _me_ , which is right and proper, as an inferior being often develops an attachment to their superiors.  I can use that adoration to influence his behaviors, in this case, to have him use his sexual wiles on the gargantuan ginger glob to convince him that your head should be mine.  It is a simple matter once one has worked out the proper line of influence.”

      “Yeah, you’re a big fat liar.  Greg’s a normal bloke and not one of those mind-controlled zombies you see in the films.  Should have stopped when you were ahead, Mr. Show Off.”

      “I, at least, have attributes to, as you say, show off.  I could and _should_ charge a fee for individuals to be in my presence.”

      “Well, if that’s what you want, I’ll pay you in berries, since that’s about all I have.  Now, let’s start picking so I can get my admission fee together.  Besides, I really want a berry tart and no berries equals no berry tart.  See, I can use logic, too.”

Sherlock, grudgingly, had to admit that John’s pathetic attempt at logic did strike home.  A berry tart _would_ be very nice.

      “Since I have been shanghaied for this penance, I have little choice.  However, you are not to descend into your natural pattern of throwing the object of our labor in my direction.”

      “Oh, you mean like this?”

One large, over-ripe berry smacked in the direct center of Sherlock chin.

      “Your taste for war is shameful, but I shall not deny you your just desserts.”

      “Long as they include berries, I’m fine.”

      “Then let the battle begin.”

__________

Lestrade stretched and decided this was the way every day should be spent.  Well, with one exception.  Right now, someone else should be leaning against the tree, shoulder-to-shoulder with him, or laying down on the grass with their gorgeous ginger head in his lap.  It was a shame Mycroft had some important meeting to attend and couldn’t share their day, but it was ok, really.  There’d be other days.  Lots of them.  Maybe not as many as they would like because they’d both be busy and working long hours when they finally settled into their careers, but there’d be enough.  _Any_ contact with his Mycroft was something to be prized… however, approaching him was another form of prize.  A messy, exhausted prize…

      “Well, you two look like you had fun.  You’re as purple as one of the berries in my baskets.”

      “John Watson made another of his incessant declarations of war and I had no choice but to respond most vigorously!”

      “Well, it looks like you might have won this time.”

      “Really?”

      “Sure, John’s got far more bloodstains, I mean juice stains, on him.”

      “Hey!  That’s not fair.  He tripped me and I landed on my sack.  I had to start all over again AND I got juiced.”

      “All’s fair in war, John.  Sorry.  Did you at least eat the casualties in your sack destruction?”

      “Oh yeah.  Sherlock helped, too.  And I got it filled right back up again, so nothing went to waste.”

      “Very conscientious of you.  You ready to go back?”

      “I am far more than ready.  This has been a debilitating experience.”

      “The way your belly’s poking out, Sherlock, I think it was a filling one, too.”

The fury of Sherlock’s indignation could likely be felt at the bottom of the ocean.

      “I am not enlarged!”

      “Beg to differ.  You’ve got a nice bit of bulge going on there.  Anyway, Fatlock, I mean, Sherlock… you and John go get my baskets out of the boot and put them in the back, on the seat or floor.  Toss your sacks on the floor up front with me.”

      “And where are John and I supposed to sit?”

      “In the boot.  Hold the lid open so it doesn’t keep bouncing off your head.”

      “That sounds great!”

      “Only you, John Watson, would think being transported like an illegal migrant worker was enjoyable.  I summarily refuse.”

      “Then you’re walking back.  I’m not having you two staining Mum’s seats, so it’s the boot or your feet.  Take your pick.”

      “I have never been so ill-used!  I am not a sack of coffee beans!  I should be allowed to ride in the passenger’s seat as befitting my status.”

      “Ok, then there’s option three.  John gets the fun ride in the boot and you get to sit up front with me.  Naked.”

      “I choose the boot.”

      “I thought you might.”

John laughed and dragged the highly irritated Sherlock into moving the baskets of berries, then hopped into the boot of the car, grabbing onto the large metal flap above his head and bracing himself for his own carnival ride.  Sherlock slowly and with a great deal of dramatic presentation to reinforce the fact that the high value of his life was not being accorded proper respect, hopped in next to John and gritted his teeth as he lent support to protecting their leaf-filled and berry-stained hair and the heads beneath it.  Lestrade waited until he was behind the wheel to let out the laugh he’d been holding in and eased the car into gear to begin the leisurely drive back to the house.  Luckily, the estate roads weren’t too bad and, if necessary, he doubted Mycroft would mind if he went off-road onto smooth grass to miss a particularly bad patch.  But, hearing John already whooping in glee, maybe a few good bumps wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

__________

      “I shall never ride with you again, you working-class… dung beetle!  That was horrifying!”

      “What are you talking about?  That was… I can’t even say how fun that was!  Can we do it again, Greg?”

      “Glad to be of service, Sherlock.  And thanks to you for that, John.  I bet after this batch of baking, Cook will be thrilled if you go back out there for another round and I’ll be happy to drive.  Now, pick up your sacks and get to the kitchen.  I’m going to find your brother.”

      “Think Mycroft can come next time?”

      “Already the horror of this day cannot be overestimated and I shall not increase that nearly-infinite amount by adding my balloon-like brother’s presence to the equation.”

      “Well, I think he’d like it.”

      “And I think you’re right, Johnny-boy, so I’m going to do my best to get him out with us next time we go picking.”

      “Fool that you are… Mycroft would leap into the bushes and consume every berry they have produced.  He would fill to the point where his bacciform body would be attacked immediately by the wildlife hoping for a nearly-unlimited meal.  Wait… that would be a _beneficial_ outcome… I retract my objection; Mycroft may join us for our next excursion.”

      “Only if he gets torn apart by wildlife in the process.”

      “The appeal of that endgame cannot be denied, even by one as lowborn as you.”

      “Rather not have my boyfriend in shreds, thank you very much.  It’s hard to have a cuddle with a bunch of bloody strips.  And I plan on giving him lots of cuddles – want the details?  Oh, that rolling on the ground faking a seizure tells me you’re not quite in the mood this time.”

      “Greg, are you _sure_ he’s ok?”

      “Yeah, but I guess it’s smart to double-check.  Give him a good kick, John, and see what happens.”

      “If your foot contacts my person, John Watson, there will be nowhere on Earth you can hide from my vengeance.”

      “See, clear as a bell.  Now, drag your friend off the ground and get those berries inside.  Sherlock… when you stop seizing, make sure to help John and then show him where he can get cleaned up.”

      “There is a trough in the neighbor’s stables available for his bathing.  OW!  You violated me with your appendage, you diminutive dimwit!”

      “And I’ll do it again if you don’t stop being evil.  Let’s go, I’m thirsty and I’m starting to stick to myself.  Look how hard it is to pry my fingers open.”

      “Hmmm… the adhesive properties of berry juice; that could be an interesting investigation. You are not allowed to wash until I have completed my experiment.  We shall begin immediately.”

      “That could take hours and I really want some water!”

      “The lackey will provide you with water and a straw once I have positioned you for my tests.”

      “What if I have to pee?”

      “I will instruct him to leave behind the empty glass, but I will insist you exhibit excellent aim.”

      “Greg?”

      “Go on, John… keep him occupied so he doesn’t bother Cook.  I’ll make sure she makes a special tart just for you.”

      “Alright, but… this isn’t going to hurt, is it Sherlock?”

      “I shall instruct you in the relevant features of the pain scale so you may report accordingly.”

      “Make that two tarts, Greg.”

      “Two it is…”

__________

Lestrade wandered through the enormous house and found Mycroft sitting at a table in the library, reading through a stack of papers.  It was such a simple scene, but it warmed Lestrade’s heart like a campfire.

      “And look at my Mycroft, working away when the rest of us are out being lazy.  I know I can count on you to keep a roof over our heads even if I just lay about under it, drinking beer and watching the match with my mates.”

Mycroft let a small smile escape his lips at the thought.  His beloved Gregory was the most industrious individual he knew and, by far, the most patient.  It had to be for what else could explain his glorious grin after spending a full afternoon with Sherlock and John and the turmoils of nature.  Much of which was affixed to him in some manner at the moment.

      “Ah, Gregory…  a few matters of business, but now they are complete and you own my attention entirely.  I trust your afternoon was interesting.”

      “That’s a good word for it.  Actually, I took it easy and let the boys run wild.  They got into a berry war, ate until their bellies were stuffed, had an exciting ride back and now Sherlock’s running experiments on John.  I’d say they had a pretty good day.”

One day… one day far in the future… there would be other little children running wild on the estate.  Or through their courtyard of their London residence.  Little children they could call their own and who would likely never fully understand the magnitude of their good fortune at having such a splendid parent as Gregory, until they had offspring of their own.

      “And you, my dear?  Did you enjoy your afternoon?  I am distraught that we could not share it together, however…”

      “Nah, I understand… next time, though, ok?  And I had a great time!  Just settled back and enjoyed the warmth and my new book.  Did a little woolgathering about a sexy beast with luscious lips and beautiful eyes while I was at it, too.  Best part of the day.”

Having a vision of physical perfection offer him a compliment was something Mycroft was not certain would ever cease to surprise him, but he treasured each one as much as a flawless diamond.

      “Oh, and was this individual sitting lonely in a mind-crippling meeting when he desperately wanted, instead, to share the weather and the day with the one he loves?”

Lestrade licked his lips, which he knew always sent Mycroft’s temperature through the roof and put a little extra swagger in his step as he walked the final few steps towards his boyfriend, leaned over and kissed him long and slow until a lazy hand run down between Mycroft’s legs showed him just how lonely his poor partner had been.

      “Yeah, he was and I fully intend to make up for any loneliness this person might have suffered.”

And there was no reason not to start now, especially with the wonderful noises his lover was starting to make as he continued to explore Mycroft’s quickly vanishing loneliness.

      “I am open to any s…suggestions for repayment.”

      “I have a couple I make.  Oh, and John set aside some berries for you that I think I can put to use, too.  Meet you in your bedroom?  The boys will be busy for a long time if I read Sherlock right and I can’t think of a better use of that time than making your big brain shut down for awhile.  Sound good?”

The word ‘good’ would officially be banned from the next edition of the OED.  How… flaccid… a word for what his Gregory was offering.

      “Extremely, I would say.  And you shall bring berries?”

      “Oh yeah… big, soft, juicy berries.  Maybe a little cream to go with them?”

If the pressure in Mycroft’s trousers became any greater his tailor’s fine stitching was going to be in sore need of repair.

      “Cream?”

      “Lots of yummy cream.”

      “I shall wait with bated breath for your arrival.”

      “Naked?”

      “Very.”

      “Won’t be two seconds.”

      “I do hope not.  I would hate to start without you.”

Watching Lestrade’s pupils dilate to the size of dinner plates was as erotic as anything his love’s fingers had been doing a moment ago.

      “If you do, can I watch?”

      “Will you feed me berries?”

      “Yes.”

      “And cream?”

      “Oh yes.”

      “Then I shall happily provide you with viewing pleasure.”

Whatever reply Lestrade made was lost in the rush of air that accompanied his dash towards the kitchen.  Mycroft watched his love hurry away and set himself moving towards his bedroom with the same eager haste.  What a delightful way to spend the remainder of the afternoon, especially since…

      “Sherlock!  John!  What on Earth has happened to you?”

Standing at the top of the stairs was two barely recognizable juice-stained figures, with lightning-struck hair and clothes ready for nothing but a rubbish bin.

      “Sherlock won’t let me wash until he’s done with his tests.  And I said if I can’t wash, neither can he.”

      “John is being grossly unfair and you must provide suitable punishment!”

Such a joyful interruption to the grand romantic interlude.  How fortunate, thought Mycroft, that his jacket extended below the level of his groin.  It would not do to frighten the infant aboriginals. 

      “I shall not be chastising anyone, Sherlock.”

Except, perhaps, Gregory and that would only be of the most enjoyable variety of correction.

      “You are weak as John’s mind!”

      “Hey! Shut it, you or you’ll be experimenting on how big a bruise my fist can make on your arm.”

      “John… kindly take your various matters of business to Sherlock’s laboratory and make every attempt to end the experience with both of you still alive.  Gregory and I shall rejoin you later for dinner.”

      “Sure you don’t want to help, Mycroft?  You didn’t get to do anything fun today, like we did.”

      “Do not expend your concern on him, John.  He and the peasant are going to engage in sexual relations and they are sufficiently primitive to consider _that_ fun.  Come along… if I remain a moment longer in Mycroft’s hyperaroused presence I may have no choice but to end my suffering with a blade to the heart.”

      “What does that hyper thing mean?”

      “Lift his jacket and it will become clear.”

      “SHERLOCK!  Make yourself absent immediately!”

      “Shouting, the sign of a bankrupt wit.  The lack of blood in your head has obviously lowered your intelligence by a significant amount.  Let us depart, John.  The stench of lust is becoming overwhelming.”

Two purple goblin younglings stalked off holding their noses and Mycroft calculated the time required to humanely dispatch the vile creatures and, since it exceeded the likely time required for his Gregory’s return, pronounced the hellspawn safe to live for one more day.  A quick jog to his bedroom followed his benevolent gesture, clothing flew from his body to the corners of the room and it was the work of several panicked minutes to find a suitably enticing pose in which to arrange himself.  It was only a moment after Mycroft settled on the position he found most satisfying that Lestrade scurried into the room, a small tray with berries and cream in his hand, which almost hit the floor when he saw his lover sprawled out on the bed, naked and beckoning.

      “Oh god… oh god oh god oh god…”

Such a delicious sense of power… Mycroft never thought of himself as a seducer, but it was highly evident he had _some_ skill in that arena.

      “Are you pleased, my dear?”

      “Ecstatic.  About to explode right here with all my clothes on.”

      “Then take care of the latter and we shall see about exploring the former.”

Lestrade nearly tripped over his feet running towards the bed, then carefully set down his tray before flinging his clothes in every direction and climbing into bed and onto his Mycroft who gladly accepted his weight.

      “I love you, you know, Mycroft.  With all my heart.”

      “And I love you, Gregory.  With everything I am.”

      “But you’d love me more if I was eating a berry out of your navel or licking cream off a nipple.”

      “Well, that is an interesting question.  Please begin and I shall make a thorough analysis of my level of adoration and its variations.”

      “Don’t stop to take notes.”

      “Perish the thought.  I have far more indulgent things to do with my fingers…”


End file.
